Sherlock Holmes and the case of a serial maniac
by antomasov
Summary: While fighting against the boredom of his everyday life, Sherlock Holmes encounters a case of a serial killer amidst the streets of London. Holmes decides to solve the case of his own free will while using the help of his trusted friend and partner Dr. Watson. Chronicled by Dr. Watson.
HOLMES AND THE SERIAL MANIAC

During all my years of having known Mr. Holmes, never had I been as worried for his health, both mental and physical, as I had during those days.

My married life had just begun and as fortunate as it was, it left me with little time to spend with Sherlock. He was always a moody man, something my readers might not fully comprehend from my memoires, but never the less the truth. It appeared my absence from his life had left him moodier still. As I approached the dear building that held so many memories of our adventures together, I felt a strange mixture of pride and nostalgia.

"Is Mr. Holmes home?" I asked Mrs. Hudson who met me at the hallway.

"Watson!" The lady exclaimed with joy I did not see before. I felt touched since I never suspected she held me so close to heart. "He is. He is, but I so wish he isn't!"

She was wearing a working apron and I tried using some of the deduction skills that Holmes had tried to instill onto me.

"Ah. I see you are cleaning the household and no doubt would prefer the old sleuth out so you can work in peace." I said.

"Yes, but that is not the sole reason." She answered. "He had been a mess for the past two weeks. He doesn't eat, he doesn't sleep. He doesn't go out even. You must help him, Mr. Watson!"

This did not surprise me as much as one would expect since I was familiar with this kind of behavior from him.

"He is most likely working on a case that is giving him more trouble than what he is used to." I said and went up the stairs to my old flat.

Before I even knocked I heard the familiar voice from behind the door.

"Come in, Mr. Watson! Come in!"

I opened the door to our flat and there he was, looking nothing like what I imagined moments ago. He was very tidy, cleanly shaven, already dressed and on his feet, looking out the window.

"You noticed me arrive from the window, or was it the noise of my steps that gave me away?" I asked him.

"Pick one." Holmes answered playfully.

"You heard my steps. " I said after a slight pause.

"Correct." Holmes turned to me and extended his arms. We shook hands and then hugged. Open displays of affection were not a habit that Sherlock possessed, and this small gesture took me by surprise. I could see how both Holmes and Mrs. Hudson missed me and I felt a bit guilty for leaving them, even if it was for just a brief moment.

"Sherlock!"

"My dear friend!", Holmes exclaimed. "You have arrived at the most opportune moment imaginable."

"I have to say, from Mrs. Hudson description, I imagined you to be in a much worse shape."

"Mrs. Hudson, like all women, is prone to melodrama. Though if she told you I have been in a melancholic condition, she did not lie."

"Did you come across a case unsolvable?"

"No.", Holmes paused and then changed the tone of his voice. "Yes. The unsolvable case of boredom. I understand you have your marital duties but my life has been quite dull since we last saw each other. How is Mrs. Watson, by the way?"

"She is well. We have started redecorating our current living room and are planning our travel to Pembroke next weekend."

"Ah, Pembroke. Yes."

"A southern town in Wales?"

"Thank you, Watson. Geography is not amongst my strongest disciplines."

"Well, one would expect it would come useful in criminal investigations."

"Not at all."

"Besides, Pembroke is a beautiful historical place."

"I have no need for such information.", Holmes added coldly. He sometimes almost seemed upset that he was not omniscient.

"Well, in either case, you should come visit us before we leave. You haven't still.", I told him.

"What for? A sacred bond between a man and a woman is not to be interrupted by a former roommate."

"Holmes….", I muttered in disbelief.

"A bicycle does not need three wheels."

"Well, good thing we are not a bicycle then. And you are not a wheel last time I checked."

"All right. Speaking around the subject brings no yield so I'll just say it. I do not wish to be a part of your married life."

Holmes was often too blunt about things, but this sentiment of his insulted me greatly.

"If that is how you feel, Holmes. Then there is nothing left to discuss. Good day.", I said in haste and was preparing to leave.

"Wait!", Holmes yelled with a strange desperation in his voice. "Wait! I am sorry, dear Watson."

"What for?"

"For insulting your benevolent intentions just now. You are my friend. But even more, a partner in crime solving. I enjoy your company the most when we are solving a case, but social visits were never my forte. You know that."

"If I am your friend, you will accept that I am a married man now. And you will visit us at our new home.", I said without compromise.

"A black mail? How outrageous." Holmes answered jokingly. "Of course. Of course I'll visit. But first, sit down Watson! Sit down so we can discuss a new case. "

A CURIOUS CASE OF A MANIAC

I sat down and watched Holmes walk up and down the room, lighting his pipe and smoking. Making a theatrical pause and even looking over his shoulder to observe my reactions.

"I thought you said you were anguishing in boredom these past two weeks." I broke the silence first.

"I was. But the sole reason of my melancholy has been broken since a new case has appeared on the horizon.", Holmes answered. "I don't know if you are familiar with the latest news regarding a murder of a young prostitute."

"I have read about that tragedy, yes."

"Well, the case by itself would not be as interesting, brutal that it was. But early this morning I received troubling news of a similar event happening elsewhere. An old prostitute was murdered in circumstances far too similar to the first murder."

"Holmes!"

"The news of this murder have not hit the newspapers yet, since it had only just occurred late last night. I found out about the event from one of my little helpers and immediately made my way to the scene of the crime. The police was already there when I arrived, making a mess out of any evidence I might have found around the body. A senior detective stopped me in my tracks and other officers had to vouch for my reputation. He still didn't let me get to the body until after everyone was cleared. Despite all of these unfavorable circumstances, I managed to make a quick peek before the body was taken away and learn some useful things."

"Holmes, this story is extraordinarily exciting. But what made you pursue this murder? Were you hired by a third party? Or is this just…."

"It is just. Just me acting on my own." Holmes answered. "Call it a hobby or an adventure, if you'd like. Back to the matters at hand. I noticed bruises and marks left by someone's fingers on the victim's lower left arm, most likely earned in an attempt to shake off her attacker. The distance between bruises suggested a male hand had inflicted them, with finger length somewhat smaller than my own but with possibly thicker fingers."

Holmes took a piece of paper off his table and handed it to me. It contained a poorly drawn image of a palm in its natural size.

"I made this sketch to approximate what the attacker's hand might look like." Holmes said.

"Not much to go with.", I rebutted.

"A small piece of a puzzle is better than no piece." Holmes answered and pulled in more smoke from the pipe. "Her body was massacred by the killer, Watson. I still have those images floating around my thoughts. Despite my distaste for the gruesome situation, I searched the blood stains on her body for possible imprints of the attacker's fingers, pieces of cloth or anything that could have been of use. Unfortunately, Scotland Yard was not helpful but the opposite in fact, since they took the body away from me in haste. However, I found out the incisions on her body were made by two different pieces of blade at the very least. As some cuts were made by a much smaller blade, possibly a scalpel, and some were made by a knife so big it might as well have been a butcher's knife. Both blades were sharp as all hell, Watson, as the cuts they left behind seemed clean and deep."

"Not a nice story to hear this early in the morning." I said feeling uneasy about this whole ordeal. "I came for a friendly visit and found myself imagining a gory horror instead."

"Well you are not unaccustomed to these things, Watson."

"I have seen my share of blood, yes. But I don't hope to ever become accustomed to such scenes."

"All the reason more to catch that maniac, Watson!"

"You believe both murders were committed by the same person?", I finally asked.

"I know it is so. Sometimes I have a feeling something is true even before my reason confirms the suspicion. But in this case, plenty of facts confirm it. You are familiar on how two paintings can be discerned to belong to the same author?"

"By the signature?"

"Not only the actual signature, but also by the style of the author. The complexity of style each person has leaves an imprint on everything they do. And so, I can recognize that two different crime scenes belong to the same author as well."

"If I didn't know you so well, Sherlock, I never would have believe it. But, I do know you well.", I answered truthfully. My friend often had eccentric ideas about things, and time spent with him had taught me to never dismiss them outright. "However, what motive could one have in killing two prostitutes?"

"What motive indeed? What motive could a maniac possibly have?"

"So, you believe it to be a work of a madman?"

"Quite possibly so.", Sherlock seated himself across me and looked at me with his piercing eyes. This whole situation seemed to amuse him as a slight smile appeared on his face. "One would have to be crazy to begin with, to even consider slicing a fellow human being open like that."

"By that logic every criminal or murderer is crazy."

"Exactly. But this one is crazier still as I suspect his motives are not rooted in any reason."

"But what makes you believe that?"

"Like I mentioned, sometimes my work is based more on a feeling than fact, at least initially. Two disconnected women, of which their profession is the only thing that connects them, murdered brutally. In such a fashion that the word "hateful" comes to mind. As if the reason was a base emotion like revenge. Nothing was stolen. They were not persons of stature or interest, no one would gain from their deaths. Logical elimination tells me something unreasonable is at play here, something base."

"Maybe a fellow the ladies rejected or wronged?"

"Exactly. Perhaps a man bitter or with murderous tendencies, who unable to deal with rejection in love decided to unleash his fury onto helpless women. Perhaps he thought prostitutes won't be missed, perhaps he considered them an easy target."  
"Too many uncertainties.", I said while Sherlock stroked his chin.

"As long as the "maybes" are reasonable, they can help us come to the right conclusion.", Holmes got up again. "If you wish we can discuss this case in greater detail over breakfast."

I respectfully declined Holmes' offer as I was already running late for my appointments, and afterwards a lunch with my wife awaited me.

"Ah, I see. Well, you have your duties as a healer to your fellow man, and as a husband to your wife of course." Holmes said while walking me to the door. "But so do I have my duty to the people of London. Catching murderers is like healing society in a way, wouldn't you say?"

With those words Holmes and I parted our ways for that day. I couldn't help but think about this new case as I took a carriage to my destination and I wished Sherlock all the luck and success in solving it as soon as possible.

A MANIACAL DESIRE

It had been three days since last I saw my friend in the Baker street, and I almost forgot about the details of the case he was working on until a dreadful reminder appeared in the newspapers. The mysterious murderer had left behind a third victim.

"Is this not the work of the murderer Sherlock is after?", Mary asked me while holding the newspapers. We were both finishing breakfast at the time.

"Yes. Most likely.", I said and almost choked on a piece of food. I hurried up to see who the third victim was and I found she was yet another of those unfortunate women forced to sell their bodies for a price. I felt a mixture of shame and disgust. And worry.

"I am going to see Holmes.", I said to my wife while grabbing my coat before going out.

"You are not going to get involved, are you?", Mary asked with much concern in her voice.

"Of course not. But I need to see if Holmes is all right.", I answered her not knowing still if I was lying to her or not. She was frightened yet still elegant and as beautiful as ever. I held her arm and kissed her goodbye. "Mary, it will be all right so don't worry."

Those were my words to her as I hurried back to Baker street to which I arrived shortly.

"Holmes?", I called for my friend and slowly opened the door to our old flat. I saw no one at first. Not until I lowered my eyes towards the floor did I notice my friend struggling.

"Holmes? What are you doing?", I asked as Sherlock was apparently doing pushups and he was in the middle of an exercise for some time judging by the amount of sweat on his face.

"Watson….", Holmes grunted. "How nice of you to visit….."

"I wasn't expecting to find you in a physical exercise. Most commendable.", I told my friend with a smile. It wasn't unusual for Holmes to completely abandon his physical health during a case and so this was a strange turn of events for me.

"Well….. this time a case requires me to….. be … in a better physical shape….", Holmes barely finished the sentence and then stopped to lay on the living room floor, facing belly down.

"Are you all right, Holmes?", I asked him trying to suppress my laughter.

"I've been better.", Holmes stood up and wiped the dust off his shirt. "My physical condition is atrocious. What brings you to our old place, dear Watson?"

"I've read about the newest murder, Holmes, and here I hurried with quite a bit of worry on my brow to see if you were all right. I am relieved that I found you in this condition instead of something much worse."

"Well, if you were half as concerned for the lives of those women out there, you would have stayed to help me solve this case.", Holmes coldly replied.

"This is hardly fair of you.", I answered feeling once again wronged by his bluntness.

"I know, please excuse me."

"It is not my duty to read the newspapers looking for crimes and then go out of my way to battle with them. I'm a simple doctor and a married one at that."

"I am aware."

"And how much of a help would I be to you? You never needed me to draw any deductions. Or do you just need someone to watch you perform miracles?"

"You underestimate yourself now. Perhaps you did help me come up with some of my famous deductions. Perhaps even if you had wrong ideas, those ideas led to the right ones. And you saved my life on more than one occasion if my memory serves me well."

"I am here as your friend, first and foremost. My days of going on adventures with you are over, Holmes.", I finally said in a quiet if not a sad tone.

"And when you read the news of the latest murder how did that make you feel?", Holmes replied.

"Furious, of course."

"And wouldn't you give your all to stop such a madman? And isn't it in fact, your civil duty, to stop such murders from taking place?"

"If I was able to, I would put a stop to him. But you are not making me help you by playing on my sentiment of guilt or duty!"

Holmes was never as devious as he was that day. It was as if he wanted a hold onto me and was jealous of the fact my time now belonged to my wife and not him.

"Come and sit!", Holmes commanded. "I will tell you what happened between we last saw each other and now. If you are interested at all, that is?"

I sat down and crossed my legs. While observing Holmes changing his shirts, I noticed scratches on both his arms.

"Are the scratches you earned the reason of a sudden interest in physical exercise?", I asked him. "Or are they the consequence of the exercise?"

"It is one of those, yes.", Holmes answered. "Let me tell you the entire story Watson, unless you wish to deduce parts of it?"

"I don't possess your talent for such things, Holmes. You will have to tell me everything yourself."

"Very well. After you left I reviewed the evidence I collected, what from the actual scene of the crime, and some I gathered from the news and rumors heard both from police officers and my boys. The conclusion was that the evidence was insufficient. I didn't have enough to narrow my choice of suspects or to dictate my future actions. And so I decided for the dirty method instead of the intellectual. I hired all the boys I could find to monitor the streets and report to me anything unusual, I asked them to specifically look after the ladies of the night and what they have to say. While for myself, I left the dirty job of masking as a sailor whose favorite past time is the company of whores, Watson."

"You are putting yourself at risk."

"Not the first or the last time. As I travelled the streets of London donning my disguise, I have learned all but the poorest prostitutes dared risk their life these days. I had to make my way into the slummiest of slums to get close to the few that were out. I fit right into the lot, swearing and acting as a sailor would, standing next to the other caricatures posing as human beings. A fat merchant, married at that since he masked the ring on his finger clumsily, a clerk trying to hide his profession and accent yet unable to fool me, a construction worker so drunk he was not aware of his surroundings. All looking for cheap love from a woman desperate enough to lower herself for them. I quickly became the loudest of the lot. "If that bloody murderer comes 'ere tonight, I'm a gonna gut him like a fish!" I shouted and everyone cheered. "He aint comin' here tonight! No, sir.", the merchant joined in. "He is a coward and we are plenty here! I'd kill him if I got my hands on him sir!"

"At least their standards regarding the punishment of murder are more sound than the ones regarding buying love.", I added sarcastically interrupting Holmes for a brief moment.

"A skinny looking fellow left the shack while buckling his belt and the prostitute came out of her room.", Holmes continued his story. "She asked us "whos next?". The fat merchant gladly pushed us aside and followed her to her room. I felt such a surge of disgust, dear Watson, that I arrived at an epiphany. Perhaps the murderer was someone so morally disgusted by the depraved acts committed by the flesh sellers and buyers, that he felt justified in murdering the poor women. Maybe a religious zealot, or a man convinced he was doing god's work."

"In that case, wouldn't he also punish the customers as well?" I asked.

"Maybe he puts more fault onto women than men. Or maybe, he is a coward who figures women are an easier target for objective reasons. Either way, I arrived at another possible motive our maniac might have. Of course, while I was waiting for all the charming fellows to have their way with the prostitute, I observed each of their hands to see if any fit the size and shape of the murderer's hand. There were no matches, either too small, too big, too fat. So I felt confident that the murderer was not in the room with me that night. As the other lustful customer was leaving, I managed to enter next into the whore's chambers. And I do use the word "chambers" generously here as it was more of a toolshed with a moldy mattress laid on the floor. She took my hands and invited me to sit down with her but making love to that woman was the least of things I wanted to do that evening. Even if I was of interest to romance a lady, which as you are familiar I am not of, this one has lowered herself far too much in my eyes that I wouldn't find her desirable even if it was my greatest wish to do so. I told her "I only want to talk tonight, missy." And she looked at me surprised. "If that is what you want, then get out! I don't have time for nonsense." she replied however I calmed her concerns by saying "I will pay you for your time as any man would. I just want to talk to someone to kill my loneliness." She seemed suspicious at first until I explained myself further. "My soldier hasn't been saluting proper ever since I contracted some disease in India. But I still enjoy a company of an honest woman.", I told her. I often heard men with no class refer to their sexual organs as "soldier" and such."

"Yes, Holmes. It appears to me you took great enjoyment out of donning your disguise this time." I told Sherlock playfully.

"Not at all. As you are soon to find out, the things went the opposite way in fact. After I mentioned my "soldier", she grabbed my most private parts Watson, most likely in desire to make me feel better but I quickly withdrawn. "It is no use", I told her. "Lets just talk." And so we began chatting until I managed to ask her what was really on my mind: "How come you are not afraid to be workin', what with all the murders happenin'?" And she replied with: "There are always a lot of people round here, I wagered the murderer wouldn't dare attack us here." Her answer made sense logically as both murders did happen very late at night when the maniac was sure there would be no witnesses. I warned her not to work too late and have a friend accompany her back home. "But this is where I live, mister.", she answered me.

Holmes was lighting his pipe and on his face I could see what appeared to be anguish or at least an unpleasant emotion forming.

"For a lot of women, prostitution is the only way they can get by these days." I told Sherlock.

"Industrial revolution.", Holmes was putting out a match in a quick swipe. "It supposedly brings progress yet it put a lot of people into metaphorical chains."  
"It put some into literal chains", I added.

"I thanked her and I left.", Holmes continued. "I decided to roam the streets some more, but nothing of importance was happening. I thought how she might as well have been chained to that shack of hers, chained by poverty or chained by inability to see other options. In either way it was her world and I was a visitor in disguise, not bound to such misery. I was just a disguised visitor to the streets of London as well, all the drunks and all the miserable people could mistake me for one of their own easily. But it was not my world, Watson. I circled around until I found an old fellow singing in the middle of the street. "Tell me friend, where could an honest man like me find himself a proper whore?", I asked him while hugging the man. "London is filled with em.", he begun answering. "Filled I tell ya. Only now they too scared to come out, there might be a maniac out here ya'know? But I tell you what, go to the old Sally's pub and she might give it to ya for free. She loves sailors too."

"I just want to find a whore, I don't need honest women.", I told him and he yelled: "You are a strange fellow! Sally knows the trade like a whore would but she gives it up for a drink. It's a better deal I tell you. Hey, maybe you're that murderer?!", and I replied: "Just an honest sailor looking to spend some money." He looked at me and shook his head: "There was another fellow just like you asking around for whores. A suspicious one too." I quickly asked for the description of this fellow but all I got in return was that he wore a long hat and a scarf around the bottom of his face. "Where did he go?", I asked the drunkard. "He went towards Martha's shack.", old man answered and pointed the finger to the direction I just came from. I ran, Watson. I ran towards the shack since I felt that the mysterious man heading there was the maniac himself."

"Good lord. What happened next?"

"What happened next…", Sherlock continued and drew a big puff of smoke from his pipe. "Is I failed her."

I watched Sherlock get up again and walk nervously around the room. He stopped and the look on his face was grim.

"I heard the screams from inside the shack and ran headfirst through the old door. A dark cloaked man, his height approximate to mine, was kneeling above the poor girl's body, holding a blood stained knife. She was still alive Watson, wriggling her legs in a pool of blood. "You fiend!", I screamed at him. He threw the knife at me and by the grace of god it missed my face by as much as a cat's hair and ended up embedded in the wall. That single moment of shock was enough for the attacker to jump out of the window and run with youthful haste. I followed through. As I ran after him, the obvious fact he was in a better physical condition than I proved to be my downfall. The murderer jumped onto the wall of one of the houses and climbed it like a cat, then he continued running on rooftops, jumping from one building to another. I tried following him and jumped onto the wall as well but as I was lifting myself up, I found my arms betraying me and I ended up with the scratches that you noticed on both my arms before I lifted myself up. The attacker had already gained too much of an advantage in distance so I gave up pursuit. I returned to the shack to see if Martha, which was the prostitute's name, was still alive. As she was laying in the pool of her own blood I could see her questioning eyes look up at me. "Did you catch him?", she asked me. "Yes.", I lied. "I killed him with my own hands." "Good….", those were her last words as she smiled and closed her eyes one final time. I don't have your expertise in medicine, Watson, but I doubt even you would have been able to pull her away from death's grip. The loss of blood and the wound were too severe."

I sat there in silence, feeling deeply disturbed by the story.

"What are you going to do, Holmes?", I finally asked.

"I am going to fulfill what I promised her.", Holmes replied. "Animal we are after is a young man, in his prime. A rich man as his clothes were too expensive. A man with long strides and good athletic ability. A fine challenge I would say. I know his height, shoe size, size of his hands."

"What about his face?"

"I did not see it well in the dark. And as soon as he started his escape, he put a black scarf over the lower half of his face. However, I saw what appeared to be a beard, well-groomed and short cut."

"You have plenty of information it seems.", I said.

"I shall now make inquiry about a man of such characteristics."

"To whom? If you ask too much around, it might alarm the killer.", I replied.

"Of course, dear Watson. However, I have a man who is an expert on higher social circles. This killer we are searching for is no doubt a member of such a circle judging by his clothes and my man will know of him. I was just about to go pay my expert a visit. Will you join me?"

SOCIAL CRÈME

Holmes and I took a carriage to visit his so called "expert on social circles". We entered the building the gentleman occupied and had to take stairs to get to the third floor where his flat resided. A servant opened the door and welcomed us inside where I was introduced to a large living room decorated with beautiful tapestries with a large red colored rug laid across the floor. Near the fireplace were some comfortable looking chairs and Holmes' expert was sitting on one.

"Holmes. To what do I owe the pleasure?", The gentleman spoke. He was a middle aged blonde man with a strange looking haircut since one side of his head contained more hair than the other, and his expression was that of boredom.

"The usual business.", Holmes replied. "I need you to identify a young gentleman who most likely belongs to the upper class of society due to the way he dresses, who is athletically built, around my height but with broader shoulders than my own, proficient in sport most likely, and possibly keeping a cut and trimmed beard as well."

"That is oddly specific.", Expert answered and turned his gaze at me while smiling. "Ah, I see you brought your friend this time. Sit down both of you and a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson. My name is Rogger Lecruix."

"I did not know you were familiar of me.", I told him. "A pleasure to meet you as well."

We shook hands and I noticed his palm was especially sweaty.

"Of course, I read your memoires about the adventures of the "great" Sherlock Holmes. You praise him too much.", Lecruix laughed. "Did you know he wouldn't have solved half the cases he did without my help?"

"You can't quite expect me to believe this statement so easily?", I said as we were seating ourselves besides Lecruix. "I was there for most of the cases recorded in my books so I would know first hand if such a thing were true."

"Well every time a person of a higher class would be involved in one of your cases, Sherlock would come to me for advice about the said person.", Rogger Lecruix answered.

"Mind if I light my pipe?", Holmes asked already holding his pipe in his hand, ready to light it.

"I have something even better.", Lecruix clapped his hands and rang a bell near the fireplace. A servant entered the room and was ordered to bring us a narghile. "I have some of the finest opium ever tasted. This season might be the best one yet."

"I will sustain.", I tried to respectfully decline his offer.

"No.", Rogger changed the tone of his voice for a slight moment. "If you want the information you are looking for, I will insist you smoke with me."

"That is a strange request to make.", I answered and looked towards Holmes searching for his opinion.

"Watson, for the love of me, inhale one smoke.", Holmes told me. "We mustn't insult our gracious host."

"Very well.", I accepted despite my better judgement. I knew we needed the information about the murderer as soon as possible.

"Splendid!", Rogger exclaimed as he started to heat up the narghile. "To smoke with Sherlock and Dr. Watson, what a treat! All those highborn ladies and lords will never believe me when I tell them about this."

"What do you mean by that?", I asked him.

"You are most popular in the educated parts of society, Dr. Watson. You and Sherlock both, in some social circles can be considered somewhat of celebrities.", he explained.

"See, Watson?", Holmes puffed a smoke from the narghile. "Your books, overly romantic as they may be, have practical uses as well. Being a celebrity sometimes opens closed doors."

"Exactly, exactly.", Rogger smiled. "Now tell me, why is it again that you are looking for such a distinguished young gentleman?"

"He might help me in a small case I am currently solving." Holmes replied.

"And what case is that?" Rogger asked suspiciously. "You see, I don't want to involve anyone I might or might not know into troubles, legal or otherwise."

I wanted to join the conversation but Holmes raised his hand as if to tell me to let him handle this business.

"When have I ever put you in a compromising position, Rogger? You will be compensated for any useful information you rely to us and discretion between us has always been guaranteed."

"I will have to think about this.", Rogger answered and passed me the narghile.

Ten minutes may have passed in leisure, the smoke was filling the room and both my vision and my thoughts begun to feel cloudy. Soon the sounds of Holmes and Mr. Rogger talking begun to distort in my ears, pitched lower and lower like their voices belonged to demons from hell instead of my companions.

"Look at your partner. Hahahahaha….", Rogger Lecruix was laughing and holding his stomach. "He can't handle the smoke at all!"

"Yes… ahahahahhaah!", Holmes was laughing as well. He did not have a habit of laughing often so this appeared as extraordinarily eerie to me.

"Come, we must help him! Dr. Watson, the help is here!", Lecruix laughed and then started fanning me with a pillow in a joking manner. "Come Sherlock, he needs air! Hahahaha!"

"Watson? Are you all right, my dear friend?", Holmes asked me all red in face. He begun to touch my cheeks and hair and he put his ear on my chest. "He is still breathing."

Lecruix laughed hysterically while Holmes hugged me.

"Enough!", I said. "I am fine but you gentlemen, have clearly had too much!"

They both returned to their seats and looked at a distance. It appeared the drug had now taken a more calming effect on their body.

"The information!", I yelled out. "Who is the young gentleman with a significant athletic ability, Lecruix?"

"No… ", The face of Rogger Lecruix suddenly turned frightened. "I can't tell you that."

"Why not?", I asked.

"Because…. I can not!", Rogger answered and kept sitting in silence.

"I have always wondered…", Holmes begun talking. "About the nature of space. For example, if I were to take few steps in this room I would reach a wall and then I would have to exit through the door to take more steps…"

"It is bizarre isn't it?", Lecruix joined in on Holmes' less than philosophical monologue. "Isn't it bizarre, Watson?"

"I suppose everything is bizarre if you think long enough about it.", I answered.

"Wouldn't it be easier, nay, more practical, if we could travel with our minds?", Holmes continued. "What is the purpose of space anyway, but to separate us? To separate things? Perhaps space is god's way of organizing things so he can remember them better?"

We sat there in silence, all three, until Holmes repeated my question.

"Who is the man we are looking for, Lecruix? No games."

"No, I won't tell you! Unless…", Lecruix held his thought. "Unless you find me in a game of hide and seek!"

"Done!", Holmes sprang up from his chair.

"Turn to the fireplace and count to fifty both of you!", Rogger commanded and ran off giggling.

"One…. Two….", Holmes was counting out loud in the most dignified way possible.

"Are we really playing hide and seek with the man?", I asked.

"Yes. This is the easiest way of obtaining the information we want, Watson!", Holmes replied.

"Forty nine, fifty! We are coming for you, ready or not!", Holmes shouted and then turned to me. "Lets separate, his apartment is enormous. The man even has two living rooms. And you thought I was eccentric, huh Watson?"

Holmes stuttered away and left me to my own devices. The room appeared to be rocking left and right now, and the walls appeared to be moving closer and then further away from me. Now I begun to guess Holmes' inspiration for his ramble about the nature of space that occurred moments ago. As I was walking through Lecruix's apartment, the strange decorations left a bad impression on me. I can still remember those images vividly, the brightly lit red carpet, stuffed animal heads on the walls, a large fireplace casting devilish shadows, Egyptian sculptures in the hallway and the living room, an African looking mask on the wall, and a great number of massive pieces of furniture made of oak. Navigating myself in an intoxicated condition through this labyrinth and finding Mr. Rogger proved more difficult than one would imagine.

I tried checking the closet and the armoires, barely grabbing the door handles and opening them as my perception of space was being altered by the moment.

"You don't really think he would pick such an obvious place to hide?", I heard Holmes say.

"Why not? People sometimes do less than wise things." I answered. "Like what we are doing right now. I wouldn't be surprised if Lecruix ran away while we are looking for him here."

"And what makes you think that?"

"Wasn't it obvious that he does not want to answer our question?", I said. "He was nervous in fact."

"I understand your sentiment completely dear Watson, but Lecruix is a man of his word.", Holmes said comfortably. "Come with me, I think I found him."

I followed Holmes into the hallway until Sherlock suddenly stopped and turned towards me.

"What do you see?", He asked me.

"I can barely see the obvious thanks to that bloody opium I inhaled, Holmes! Let alone anything hidden!", I replied clearly losing my patience.

"Of course, but calm down dear friend.", Holmes said. "You can see that at this place the hallway is too narrow. I have been in rooms both sides of the hallway and there is some space missing here. Of course he tried to hide it cleverly using furniture but…"

"A secret room?", I asked.

"Yes.", Holmes replied and took out his magnifying glass. "See?"

He put the magnifying glass against the wall and I could see through it a thin vertical line.

"Look at this.", Holmes said and put the glass near the floor.

I noticed scratch marks that appeared to go from the living room's door towards the hallway wall.

"There is a secret door here." I said. "The scratch marks appear to go directly into the wall, so something has been moved into the secret door or out of it. The vertical line you showed me is the edge of the hidden door."

"There!", Holmes exclaimed. "Your deduction abilities are no worse than my own when I show you the clues. All you have to do is look for the right ones."

"I don't think that is true." I replied.

"Don't underestimate yourself, doctor. I had the advantage of having been to this place many more times than you did and I have to confess I noticed this passage even before. Therefore, I wager our friend has hidden himself inside."

Holmes pushed on the secret door and it opened. We entered the newly revealed chamber to find Mr. Rogger Lecruix sitting in a corner, wrapping both his legs with his arms.

"You found me! So you did!" He exclaimed nervously. "I had no doubt you would, Sherlock."

In the small room there were exotic artefacts, most of which looked like they belonged to the ancient Egyptian period and a table with strange writings written on its surface upon which laid an ankh medallion.

"Tell me friend, what is this room all about?", Holmes lighted his pipe.

"This… is none of your concern, Sherlock." Lecruix replied.

"Then tell me about the young man Watson and I are looking for.", Holmes continued. "You promised."

I looked at Sherlock's unwavering confidence and I realized he already knew everything Lecruix might have told him just from being in that room. Letting Holmes catch a glimpse of your table would let him know what you had for dinner, breakfast and lunch the week before. Such seemed his suggestive presence to me at that moment.

"The name!", Sherlock yelled.

"Rupert Strathfield.", Rogger replied in defeat. "Son of the member of the parliament, James Strathfield."

"Are you sure?", Holmes asked.

"I am sure, now leave!"

"Where do you know him from?", Holmes asked again.

"I said it is time for you to leave.", Rogger replied and called for his servant who escorted us both outside.

"Doesn't matter, we got what we came for." Holmes said as he was waving for a stagecoach. "In fact, we got more than I hoped for."

CHASING RIDDLES

I spent the night in Baker's street on Holmes' insistence. My head was still cloudy after leaving Mr. Lecruix's chambers the day before and I felt like going home at the time would have been counterproductive. More so since Mary might have noticed my intoxicated condition and have even more concerns over my friendship with Holmes than she already had.

And she did have righteous concerns at the time, as any loving wife would have over her husband risking his life fighting crime. Mary's concerns for my wellbeing are something I would usually leave out while describing Holmes' cases since I wouldn't deem them important enough to be mentioned. However, her worry played a small part in this particular case, more specifically it reflected on my attitude and decisions on this occasion. Upon learning the possible identity of the maniac, Holmes took steps to ensure he gets to his man as soon as possible. He sent a telegram to his brother Mycroft, who had connections in British government, to inquire about sir James Strathfield and his son Rupert Strathfield. We also went to the better part of town to inquire about the parliament member's estates while masquerading as estate managers and even party members. Though I cannot say with certainty whether this was a good idea at the time or if we were still under the influence of the opiates which affected our decisions.

Using this method we managed to find out the location of Strathfield estate from the passerby citizens. It turned out to be quite far away as the estate was situated 10 miles southwest of London. Holmes decided the best course of action was for us to return home and travel there the next day.

And so I found myself once again in Baker Street, waking up late with a substantial headache as Mrs. Hudson was serving tea and breakfast.

"Rise and shine, my love!" She sang. "Mr. Holmes left me a note that said I should wake you if you are not up before eleven. He also told me to give you this."

She handed me a note addressed for me by Sherlock. It said:

"Dear , it occurred to me as we were about to go to our well deserved rest that Mr. Lecruix indeed didn't tell us the whole story. That he might in all probability be involved directly with Rupert Strathfield and so I deduced following Lecruix could be a gamble that pays off. I masked myself and will go to his place now to see if I can learn new information. If I do not return till morning, do not worry. I ask you to visit Strathfield estate by yourself and inquire about Rupert in a most inconspicuous manner. I suggest asking the help about the situation in Strathfield family. If you do accept this, please leave a note to Mrs. Hudson so I may know. Best of luck, your Sherlock Holmes"

I wrote on the back of the paper: "I will go there now." And I handed the note back to Mrs. Hudson.

Before going to the Strathfield estate, I first went home. I thought that Mary must have been worried about me so I decided I owe her an apology. Of course, my lovely wife was less than enthusiastic about the whole situation after I told her everything.

"So this is where your love resides?", she asked me. "You sneak out and come back after a full day to tell me you are chasing a dangerous murderer with Sherlock?"

"Mary, I love you more than anything.", I told her.

"Then don't go.", She said.

I wish she had asked me anything but this.

"I made a promise to a friend.", I replied.

"Then make a promise to your wife who doesn't want you to go.", she persisted.

"Mary, there is a maniac out there hunting for defenseless women. And Sherlock can stop him, with my help. I have a duty to both my friend and the society."

"You don't. Watson, it was never about them, it was always about Sherlock. He is the one chasing riddles, not you."

Her words hurt me deeply. It was like she knew exactly what to say, as if guided by a woman's intuition.

"I will do this last errand for Sherlock, and then I will not get involved further. I promise this." I told her but she was still not satisfied with the answer.

I leaned for a kiss and she moved away slightly.  
"You fool.", She said and kissed me. "Don't get yourself killed before you return home."

"I promise this, with all my heart." I said and greeted her. "I will be back home before nightfall, my dear."

I took the train and exited on the first station outside of London. It took me a small walk of twenty minutes through picturesque countryside to get to the estate of the Strathfields. A huge brick built wall was encompassing their substantial backyard on which a four floor mansion resided there peacefully like a historical monument.

At the gate I was met by a guard who inquired about my intentions. I lied about being a local reporter who was making a story about the Strathfields and their estate. My reasons did not satisfy him so I was forced to bribe the man. The information I got from him was enough but I still talked to the maid and the cook of the house who repeated the same details. That the head of the house, Sir James Strathfield, was away for most of the time and that he stayed at a hotel when in London. That the mistress of the house, Lady Winona Strathfield had passed away ten years ago and that the young gentleman Rupert Strathfield was studying in London and residing in a luxurious flat which his father paid for. As Rupert was my main point of interest, I managed to gather a few more details about his life; he was a proficient swordsman that attended small tournaments, he played rugby as well. He started visiting the estate less and less frequently this past year and he had a falling out with his father recently. I also got the address of Rupert's flat in London. Learning all these tiny details made the trip almost seem unworthy, but I was certain that Holmes would be content with what I have learned.

I returned to London and to Baker Street late in the afternoon to find Holmes sitting in his armchair smoking his pipe in our old living room.

"Watson!", He exclaimed. "What news do you bring?"

I told Holmes of what I have learned and he just slightly nodded.

"Is that all?", He asked. "I am afraid your trip was rather in vain then."

"But I got the man's address." I said in protest.

"My brother sent me this telegram which contains the details of both Rupert's address in London and the college he attends.", Sherlock replied.

"Well that is all well, but I had no knowledge of what your brother might have sent you.", I replied. "I gathered all the information I could."

"Did you talk to the local people there, their neighbors? Did you enter a pub to ask a few questions?"

"No, I only talked to the help."

"There lies your folly. Rumors in small settlements like these last for a life time. Any awkward detail from young Rupert's life would be remembered by a pub customer and brought to your attention."

"I don't see how that helps us in any way.", I replied. "We are after him because he might be the serial maniac, not because he did something scandalous while he was a boy."

"Well I suppose you are right.", Holmes puffed away some smoke. "Though an incident of sadistic nature in his youth would be another clue he is the serial maniac we are after. However, like you've said, it is not something absolutely necessary at this stage."

Holmes got up and walked by the window.

"I would like to share my story now, if you do not object?", he said.

"Not at all.", I answered, curious about what Sherlock was up to since he left that night.

TOO MANY PLAYERS

"Our friend Rogger Lecruix was hiding something from us that night.", Sherlock begun his story. "He was always a man of social circles, organizing events such as card nights or dance nights and attending such. This way he socialized with many different people, from common to high class. His wealth that he spent in such luxurious lifestyle was left to him by his father who was a rich merchant with several enterprises while Rogger's brothers inherited the businesses instead. As a social butterfly of sorts, it wasn't a leap of faith to deduce Rogger might have met Rupert in person or that he met some other fellows of dubious moral qualities. If you remember the table with strange writings in his secret room, it was a table that used to reside in his other living room where he would organize card nights. I attended one of those on one or two occasions. That table was now freshly decorated with strange symbols and moved into the secret room. The scratch marks you noticed on the hallway were most likely from moving the table there. What does this reveal, Watson? It revealed to me that it was only recently that Lecruix replaced his need to organize evenings of cardplay with the need to have a mysterious looking table in a secret room. Strange writings and mythical symbols implied to me something occult was happening there, with possible connections to ancient Egypt as we saw many Egyptian motifs in that room. I have heard stories of the rich inventing different occult hobbies in their leisure time which most of them had in abundance. Boredom can breed dangerous things, Watson. I am the prime example of that!", Holmes laughed to himself and then continued. "Of course, this was not a hobby that Lecruix would keep to himself. He was a social animal as I mentioned and he thrived on companionship. Besides, you probably noticed there were four chairs around the mysterious table which implies he held company there. So we can assume Lecruix became part of some strange new cult that only had few members since his secret room was quite small and there were only four chairs. Or, at the very least the meetings at his place were selected to a few members, if the cult had more then they most likely met elsewhere as well."

"Are you certain that Rogger being in a cult is the only explanation, Sherlock?", I asked my friend. "Perhaps he is just an Egyptology enthusiast?"

"In that case why paint his old table with strange symbols? No, it all pointed to a ritualistic nature of the gatherings that would be held at that table. With this in mind I donned the disguise of an older gentleman, with a thick accent, who was visiting Lecruix's place for a game of cards. I rang the bell to his door, and his servant answered. He measured me from head to toe and asked about my reasons for being there at such a late hour. I explained I was there for the card night and got the answer that those were not held anymore. I asked if I could see Lecruix myself but was told that he went to sleep. Now, Watson, I knew that was a lie as Rogger was known for always staying up late. Still this told me that Lecruix did not want to be disturbed at that time which could have meant he was having his secret meeting at the moment or he left somewhere to meet in secrecy. I went outside of the building and when I was sure no one was looking, I jumped into the bushes in front. There I stayed in an uncomfortable position, hidden and monitoring the building's door. Twenty minutes had passed and I saw Lecruix exiting the building and heading somewhere hastily. When I was certain he wouldn't notice me, I started following him from a safe distance. After a few steps a black carriage appeared, obviously waiting for him as he boarded it without saying a word. Now the carriage left for a mysterious destination and I had to improvise with haste. I ran parallel with the carriage, hiding behind walls and side streets so I wouldn't be seen. As the carriage made a turn, I jumped on a small wall from which I climbed atop some pub roof. I could see where the carriage was heading and so I had to run fast while taking a shortcut less my target escaped. I jumped from wall to wall, onto another street and ran as fast as I ever ran until I reached the crossroads. I had to climb another building to look for the carriage from a high point as I had lost sights of it. Getting out of breath I noticed the carriage taking the north road. It was moving too fast for me to catch on foot. Luckily an empty cab came by and I quickly boarded it while urging the cabman to take me north fast. He listened and soon I saw the black carriage again. We followed it until it stopped in an alley where I could see Lecruix and two more men exit it. I told the cabman to go a bit further down the road before stopping so I don't alarm Lecruix of my presence and then I exited the coach and went to the alley the mysterious gentlemen were at."

Sherlock stopped and smoked his pipe in silence for a moment.

"Well? What happened then?", I asked impatiently.

"I moved discretely to the alley just in time to see the last member of this mysterious party enter a ruined house. He knocked three times on the door, paused and then knocked the fourth time. Then he whispered "For Lisa". The door opened to let him inside and then it closed behind him. I waited a minute or so before approaching the same door. I repeated the steps unknown gentleman took and was let inside the house by an old man. He asked me who I might be and I responded with a fake name and title. I could see suspicion in the man's eyes so I insisted I was a friend of Lecruix until he allowed me to go further, telling me the ceremony had just begun. From the doorway I walked into a larger room where a circle of maybe a dozen people stood by looking at the masked figure performing a strange ritual in the center of the room. The masked man, and he was a man because his footwear and his legs were masculine and the length of his shoulders and his posture told me the center of his mass was were a man's would be, he was of a shorter height, shorter than you Watson, and an older man most likely from the way he moved. He wore an Egyptian styled mask of a cat on his head. Everyone's gaze was fixed on this master of ceremony, Watson, which I found advantageous for myself. He was chanting something on a language I did not recognize and was waving his arms theatrically. Finally he grabbed an incense burner and filled the room with smoke to end his ceremony. The gathered people started talking between themselves until the masked man spoke again. "Who wants to come forth tonight, brothers and sisters?", he asked with a muffled voice which he obviously masked on purpose. Everyone stood silent until our dear friend Rogger Lecruix stepped forward. "Brothers and sisters," he spoke nervously,"Master builder, I have a confession to make." Now everyone's gaze was on poor Rogger. I could hear the fear in his voice. "Did you reveal the secrets of the brotherhood to the uninitiated?", the masked man asked him. He called their little cult a "brotherhood", but I counted three ladies present in the room. "No, never." Lecruix answered and then continued, "But today one of the unenlightened was asking questions about one of our own. And the unenlightened one is a private detective you all may have heard about, Mister Sherlock Holmes." Everyone made some noise as if my name itself evoked terror. I took it as an utmost compliment, Watson. "What did Mister Sherlock want to know?", the masked man asked. "He was looking for the young Rupert Strathfield.", Rogger answered. "What for?", their leader inquired. "He said he might help him solve a case, but no more than that.", Rogger replied. "What did you tell him?", now the voice of their leader truly sounded terrifying, Watson. There was something murderous in that voice. "I told him nothing, I swear!", Rogger yelled in fear. I looked around and saw the cold eyes of others in that room. They were all eyeing on Rogger and it was at that moment I knew his life was in jeopardy. Old Lecruix dropped on his knees and cried for mercy, a pathetic sight but I understood him completely. "Fine. Mercy will be given to you if what you speak is true.", the masked man finally replied, "However, Sherlock Holmes….. he will be judged right now!" The mysterious man pointed his finger at me while yelling "Intruder!". Three men grabbed me and there was no point in resisting as I was soon surrounded. The masked man was now facing me directly, yet I could not see his true face. He removed my fake mustache and beard and welcomed me: "Sherlock Homes. A pleasure." A loud symphony of voices rose up as everyone was excited. I feared for my life, Watson."

"Good god!", I shouted in disbelief as Holmes was accounting his story. "Every time you venture on your own you end up in life peril!"

"I am afraid not even you would be of much help to me in such a situation, dear Watson." Holmes replied. "The masked man was very shrewd to recognize me and with you by my side, he would have even less trouble of identifying me. But to continue where I left off, after I was faced with the cult leader, I replied to him: "The pleasure is mine, mister…?" He stared at me blankly until he spoke: "This is not a wise time to be making jokes, Mr. Holmes. Why are you here?" I stood up straight and gave the same kind of answer: "I am not interested in your cult in the slightest and I do not know anything about your organization. I am only looking for Rupert Strathfield." "Only? You are ONLY looking for one of our own? And you are ONLY intruding our most sacred ceremonies?", The masked man was raising the tone of his voice yet there was something about his rage that was unconvincing. "Don't you want to know my motive for looking for him?" I asked hoping to reason with these unreasonable people and then I said: "I suspect Rupert might be the serial maniac that is attacking and killing prostitutes all over London! If you condone killing of innocent women then I am in trouble indeed. But I hope that is not the case. I hope you would want the serial maniac caught as much as I would." With those words I looked at them, Watson. I was waiting for their reaction and it seemed like the longest wait I've ever had. "We do not approve of his actions, if what you say is true.", The masked man replied. "What about our secret, he saw our faces!", a lady from the crowd yelled out. "I promise I do not care about who you are in the slightest. Your secret gathering is safe with me if you just instruct me how to find Rupert.", I said. "You do not make demands here!" Their leader answered and continued: "You will leave now with your head intact and count yourself lucky, Mr. Holmes. If Rupert is the murderer, bring him to your justice but if you mention what you saw this night to anyone, it will be you who will suffer." I gave them my word and walked out of that place while never leaving them out of my sight in case someone pulled something. I must say, getting back home was a stressful experience that night, Watson. I was paranoid I might have been followed, but what can one do?"

"And yet you broke your promise to them by telling me all this!", I exclaimed and Sherlock just laughed.

"Of course, promises are made to be broken. Here.", Holmes said and handed me a piece of paper.

I casted a quick glance onto the paper and it read: "A woman in her thirties, blond hair, modern dress of French design, luxurious jewelry on her hands, coordinates the colors of all her accessories and therefore does the shopping herself most likely. A woman with brunette hair in her twenties, slightly tanned, most likely travelled as a tourist recently to someplace warm, wearing an exotic looking scarf which is most likely a souvenir from her recent travel. A man in his twenties, rich, athletically built, light brown hair, has marks on his hands most likely earned from horse riding (made by horse reins), might be a polo player, dons a suit that doesn't fit completely his larger physique and looks fairly new which makes me believe he is not used to wearing a fancy wear…." The note went on but I stopped there.

"Descriptions of all the cult members there?", I asked him.

"Not all, only those that were distinctive enough to be recognized or found later.", Holmes replied. "If something happens to me, you might use the descriptions to find these people."

"And what if something happens to me?", I asked.

"You then must find another confidant and hand him the same descriptions I gave you, improved by your own possible findings in the meantime, of course.", Holmes replied as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"And what if I don't want to risk my life anymore? Holmes, I think we are in over our heads.", I said.

"Danger never frightened you before."

"I was not a married man before. Mary doesn't want me risking my life with you anymore. And I don't want you to risk your life without me out there.", I tried to explain my position to him.

"You are married to her, not I.", Holmes replied with no tact. "Besides, I did not know women preferred cowardice to bravery these days."

"It's not cowardice, it's concern for the loved ones. You would have known if you ever cared about someone!", I spoke these words too hastily but was sorry they left my mouth immediately after. Holmes did care, though he would only show such in small quantities.

"If I had cared?", Holmes spoke slowly and I could see heartbreak in his eyes, though he tried to hide it. "Fine, you believe me to be such a beast. Who am I to dispute it? I can send these descriptions to an inspector I am…. Friends with. Well I use the term "friends" loosely here as one may never know who he is friends with."

"Holmes, I am sorry.", I tried to make things right.

"Sorry for what? Speaking the truth? Or at least the truth you perceive as such. Don't be, we speak our mind the most in our moments of anger.", He replied.

"I did not speak the truth. I know you care, you just have…."

"A strange way of showing it. I know."

"An unorthodox way. Holmes, give me these notes, I will make several copies.", I said and put the notes in my pocket.

"Please, don't lose them.", Holmes calmed down and took a long pause thinking about something.

"What is our next move now?", I finally asked.

"We will pay ol' Rupert a visit.", Holmes replied. "But are you up for it?"

"We can go right now."

"Let us go then!", Holmes grabbed his coat and cylinder hat together with his walking stick. "We have some glorious battles to fight, dear Watson! One against the serial maniac and another against your wife Mary."

"And one against a possibly murderous cult filled with rich and influential people.", I replied not taking his jab at my wife close to heart.

"But the most dangerous one will be against Mary.", Holmes smiled and closed the door as we were exiting our old flat.

FOX'S DEN

We arrived at the address where Rupert Strathfield resided and I was surprised to see his residence was a two floor house with a backyard instead of a simple flat that I expected. Estate also contained a stone wall that surrounded its backyard and a small toolshed next to the main house. Sherlock opened the heavy brass gates that lead to the backyard and sudden loud barking made us both jump a bit. A pitbull was chained next to the toolshed and was furiously barking at us while trying to break off his chains.

"How may I help you gentlemen?", A young butler exited the house and walked towards us.

"Good afternoon.", Holmes replied. "We would like to speak to the master of the house, if we may?"

"The master is not home but who might be asking?", Butler answered and asked us.

"My name is Holmes and this is my friend John. We are Rupert's rugby mates and we wanted to speak to him on some private matter.", Sherlock lied.

"Sherlock Holmes?", Butler asked after which Holmes nodded to confirm.

"Master had instructed me to give you this if you came here.", The butler said and handed Sherlock a letter in an envelope.

Holmes and I both looked at each other in surprise and then at the butler. We thanked the man and left, not opening the letter until we moved far enough from anyone's sight. In a side alley Holmes took out his magnifying glass and examined the envelope carefully. He then sniffed the envelope as if he was a bloodhound and only then did he open the envelope using a small knife. He repeated the same process for the letter that was inside before reading it.

"Hmph!", Holmes made a sound of contempt and handed me the letter to read.

It said in capital letters: "DEAR MR. HOLMES, I HAVE BEEN TOLD OF YOUR SUSPICIONS AND THOUGHT IT BEST TO DENY THEM OUTRIGHT. YOU ARE A KNOWN DETECTIVE IN CIRCLES THAT PREFER TO READ FICTIONAL STORIES BUT I BEG OF YOU, PLEASE LEAVE THE POLICE WORK TO THE ACTUAL POLICE. I AM AFRAID OTHERWISE YOUR OVERACTIVE IMAGINATION MIGHT SEE THINGS THAT ARE NOT THERE. I HAVE LEFT FOR A SMALL VACATION BUT WILL GLADLY LEND YOU AN EAR IN THE FUTURE. BEST REGARDS, YOURS TRULY, RUPERT STRATHFIELD.

P.S. I REMEMBER JOGGING WITH YOU THE OTHER NIGHT AND YOU WERE QUITE OUT OF SHAPE."

"The dare!", I exclaimed. "He is openly taunting you!"

"Yes.", Holmes lit his pipe. "He admits to nothing in the letter yet he admitted to everything with his last remark. The "jogging" he is referring to is, of course, the chase we had after he murdered Martha. But to anyone outside of two of us it will seem like an innocent remark. Further more, he wrote in all capital letters. This way even if he writes something incriminatory, no one can tell for certain it is his handwriting."

"And the vacation?", I asked. "Is he running away?"

"I don't think so.", Holmes replied. "He feels secure. He thinks he has that little cult covering his back, he is rich and he might presume I have no evidence."

"Then where is he? Is he still in his house but the butler lied to us?", I asked.

"I don't know.", Holmes replied. "I believe he is in London still. But we should also be worried about who warned him that I was looking for him. It must have been someone from the cult. Let us hope they are not all on his side, otherwise we are in a lot of trouble Watson. In either case, I will take steps to learn if he is indeed hiding in his apartment, or somewhere else."

A VALIANT FRIEND

It has been a week since Holmes and I visited Rupert's estate in London after which we both went our separate ways. Holmes assured me my help was not needed until he learns about Rupert's whereabouts and so I returned to my lovely wife and my ordinary life as a doctor of medicine. Luckily enough, murders of prostitutes also stopped at that time which simply confirmed Rupert's identity as a serial maniac and that he was laying low for now. I finally received a telegram from Sherlock, urging me to visit him as soon as possible. When I opened the door to my old flat, Sherlock was sitting behind his work desk concentrating on some kind of experiment.

"Shhh, Watson.", Holmes told me. "This experiment could convict a guilty man or a free an innocent one, depending on its result."

"Is this related to the serial maniac case?", I asked.

"No, this one is something else.", he replied. "A man is accused of killing a neighbor with this knife you see on my table. He claims he only ever used the knife to cut cheese and as you can see, the blade is clean. I will test if there was blood on this blade recently."

Holmes dripped some sort of chemical onto the blade and the blade changed color. Strange stains appeared all over the knife and Holmes exclaimed: "Heureka! That man is a murderer."

"Not something to be celebrating.", I remarked.

"Not, indeed. But the police pays me a hundred if the man is guilty and I am just glad to solve this riddle using the science of chemistry. With such simplicity and elegance if I may add."

"Still doesn't seem right. And how will the police know you are telling the truth? I know you would never lie, but…."

"I can show them the process, science cannot lie even if men can and do.", Holmes replied. "Besides, I have a reputation and that man will sing as soon as he realizes no one buys his story."

Holmes' expression changed.

"And then he will hang. You were right in your observation, there is nothing to celebrate.", Holmes said. "But this is not why I called you. Our fun loving friend Rogger Lecruix has recently had an encounter with the serial maniac who paid him for his services he provided to us. Namely, the payment was in the form of a knife in the gut."

"Holmes, that is terrible!", I was terrified both by the story and by Sherlock's nonchalant way of telling it.

"I know. The man is dead, partly because of us.", Holmes said. "But mostly because of himself. If he hadn't confessed to that cult, Rupert would be none the wiser and maybe Lecruix would still be alive. In case you wish to ask me how I know the serial maniac was behind the act, I saw Rogger's body and the incisions were about the same size like the ones the prostitutes had. So, the same type of blade was used and the same style of cutting and stabbing. Like I said, artists leave a recognizable style and so do criminals."

"Holmes, why are you so nonchalant?", I finally asked. "This means our lives are also in danger. That maniac might target Mary, for God's sake!"

"Take Mary to your vacation now." Holmes replied.

"So you want me to leave you by yourself?"

"I am afraid I poked the beehive and so the best course of action is to run away from the angry bees.", Holmes answered. "There are too many uncertainties, if it was just the serial maniac we could handle it, but the cult and their mysterious leader could also be of murderous sort. I just can't risk it, I can't risk both my friend and his wife."

"Holmes…", I was out of words upon realizing the extent to which Sherlock cared. "I won't leave you alone against such foes."

"I know you wouldn't my dear friend. But, you will. You will do it for Mary.", Holmes answered. "I am more than capable of braving the storm on my own. Hey, the final chapter of this adventure will be recorded by me."

Holmes was correct. The thought of my wife getting involved in such a dangerous situation was overbearing. We said our farewells and I promised to Sherlock I will take Mary to Pembroke.

"Do it before it becomes too late.", Sherlock said. "I am sorry I got you involved in all this mess, my friend."

"Do not break your promise, Holmes. I expect to read you report of events when you catch the maniac." With those words Sherlock and I parted ways.

METHODS OF DEDUCTION AND SYNTHETIC THINKING

If my dear readers are interested in my own humble thoughts and processes I use when finding those criminal elements of society, then I will gladly share them in this little exercise. It is indeed I, Sherlock Holmes, a consultant made famous by an overly romantic doctor in his overly sensationalist stories, who is a pioneer in synthetic thinking. People like to mystify skill when they don't understand it. For example, one might venture to think of me possessing some extraordinary intelligence when I guess a few self explanatory facts using my method of work. But it is not intelligence, it is a hard learned skill like any other. One would not, for example, admire a hard working professional for his skill as if it was given to him on the day of his birth. But, without any further derail of thought let me present to you the subject at matter.

Most people think in terms of straightforward consequences, if A is done then B follows. But what would happen if we found the B first, wouldn't we be able to guess that A was the predecessor of B? And even though we use the straightforward consequential way of thinking more often, we still use the reverse analytical way as well. For example, if you saw your neighbor carrying a loaf of bread, you would be able to guess he visited a bakery recently. How accurate would that guess be? That depends on the number of probable options at hand. If you learned there was someone handing loafs of bread that day, it would also be possible that your neighbor had an encounter with such a hypothetical person. Or, the neighbor might be a bread making enthusiast. As you can see, we can already know intuitively which possibility is the most likely one and so we can say he was probably visiting the bakery. But, if we know he was visiting the bakery, then we can guess other events synthetically. He had to have left his house, he had to have met at least one person while out which would be the baker, and so on. And if we use both ways of thinking to solve a problem, we can accelerate our way to solution. Knowing crucial facts pertaining to the problem is as important as the method itself. Such knowledge comes from experience and from hard work of collecting data.

Another example of my method is contained in this case, there was a man with severe maniacal tendencies who killed in London. I decided to catch him not only as a service to our society but also as a way to mentally challenge myself. In a series of dangerous and unclarified events, that I leave to Watson to describe in his own poetic way, my friend Watson was forced to temporarily leave London with his wife as our own safety became in peril. I was left to contemplate ways of dealing with the dangerous maniac for I knew of his identity but was unsure of his location. Framing the problem the right way is half the solution. The location of the maniac was the only thing unknown to me in the equation, so where was he hiding? He had recently murdered in London a certain person, so the maniac was still in the same city most likely. The maniac was also connected to a certain occult or a religious cult that held meetings around London. And I knew that someone from the cult had warned him of my search for him. So at least one person from the cult was loyal to him, and maybe more than one. Analytical type of thinking is making a conclusion based on the consequences via elimination of possible causes. Through analytical thinking I made a conclusion that the maniac was in cahoots with another person from the cult considering the only possible cause of him hiding from me was someone warning him and the cult members were the only ones aware of the fact. Consequential thinking is predicting the consequences based on causes. This type of thinking we use before making any type of action. I used consequential thinking to determine the fastest way of learning the identity of the maniac's helper. This must also be done via elimination of options to find the most direct one. First option I considered, I was in a condition to locate several cult members, then follow them to their cult meetings. Once there I would perhaps be able to find possible information about the maniac or his helper. This option promised much effort and time spent on my behalf yet with uncertain results so I had to look for a faster option. Second option, through a combination of analytical and consequential thinking, that I call synthetic thinking, I made deductions about who the most probable helper to the maniac was. The cult members were mostly rich or influential people so the helper had to be such a person as well. The helper is personally invested in the wellbeing of the maniac, this might be because of the cult solidarity or because of personal relations. I already knew of one person who fulfilled both conditions of being rich and influential and personally invested in the maniac's wellbeing, and that person was the maniac's father. His location was known to me and so I decided to follow on this possibility. He was a distinguished gentleman and following him while unnoticed proved difficult yet I managed to keep close through various disguises. Finally I caught up to him when he was exiting his work place.

"Excuse me, sir. My name is Sherlock Holmes.", I introduced to the man. "I hope to ask you something."

A direct approach is great if you can read the subtle emotions of the suspect's face. A man confronted with an information he wishes to hide, will almost certainly change the expression into that of fear or anger and even the untrained ones will be able to tell a difference. But the key to this method is not to openly accuse the suspect of anything. Because even I, if someone falsely accused me, might react in anger or fear. No, the key is to mention an information that a guilty party would associate with the crime themselves and then watch their reaction. Needless to say, the father's face gave him away for a second but he quickly composed himself.

"I have not time, I am a busy man.", he answered avoiding my gaze.

"It is about your son.", I said.

This caught his attention and he stopped to look me straight in the eyes. Now I could read the determination on his face. He was getting prepared to defend his son which only confirmed my suspicions.

"I know he is the serial maniac.", I continued. "I saw him at a crime scene and he all but confirmed the fact to me."

"Nonsense.", the father was angry. "You have no evidence. And if you dare make these accusations to anyone ever again, I will make sure you regret them. Do you understand, Mr. Holmes?"

"You know he is the serial maniac." I continued. "Why are you protecting him?"

"Enough!", the father pushed me aside and started to walk away from me, unable to rationally deal with the situation.

"Sir!", I called for him as he was leaving. "Turn your son in! For the benefit of us all!"

Then he left without a word. The point of this exercise dear reader is this, direct approach can give you information, but most often it will lead to unwanted consequences as well. Now the father knows how bold I am, he will tell his son as much, and the suspect might escape me forever. Or they might decide to remove me completely in whichever way possible. All these options were valid and neither of them were beneficial for my wellbeing. Yet what happened was another kind of tragedy, the very next day the father was found murdered. I immediately assumed what the most probable cause was. After I confronted him, the father begun having doubts. He went to speak to his son, perhaps to convince him to turn himself in. The son took his father's benevolent intentions as betrayal and attacked him. This seemed like the most likely cause for the maniac to turn on his father all of a sudden, but considering the killer was irrational any kind of reason or no reason were possible as well. I examined the location the body was found in to conclude were the maniac and his father met. This was all unnecessary work at the end, but I did find the location of the maniac's hiding place. I will explain since the mental exercise is important even when the results are not. The body was found in a rotten part of town, and there would have been no reason for the victim to be there. So the father must have went to meet his son. There are two options, they either met at the place the son was hiding at or somewhere outside. The location the body was found in is usually crowded with people who would have seen the murder take place, except in the very late hours. It is also a bit further away from any flats or apartments but is accessible by coach. Considering how far the location of the body is from a possible apartment the murderer resided in, it would make no sense for the killer to carry the body there if the murder happened in some interior. Most likely, the location of the murder was very near or at the same spot where the body was found. Now all I had to determine was, from which direction the killer arrived. I examined several points around the murder location looking for footsteps, ideally the spots that held dirt or were unpaved and unwashed. I searched within a mile radius for such crucial spots that could hold clues. Finally I found two sets of footprints that were heading towards the place of the murder. Luckily, I already knew approximate foot size of the murderer, so I recognized it immediately. I also knew the foot size of the victim. So the conclusion came by itself, they walked in pair to the place of the murder and I knew the direction they were walking from. Assuming that the direction the killer was walking from was from his home to the place of the murder, I went to the general direction of his starting point and asked around about the person whose description would match the killer's. Soon I found out the building and the exact flat the killer rented, but it was already empty when I arrived. The maniac had moved but I did find the note he left behind and it was addressed for me. The details of the note were unimportant, he was taunting me openly and informing me that he will return to his original residence in London, and that since I had no evidence against him that I should drop the case.

Of course, this wasn't an option. Upon returning home, I found my old friend Dr. Watson waiting for me. He had left his wife at a safe location and had returned to help me finish the case. I was deeply moved by his concern, though his view of things was overly dramatic to say the least. Nevertheless such loyalty from a friend is almost a singular event in today's times and I'm sure I don't deserve it. I convinced Watson that I will have the killer soon which was necessary to ease his heightened emotional state. However, his emotional state was not entirely unjustified as we soon heard screams from Mrs. Hudson. The maniac had broken into our apartment building and Mrs. Hudson saw him climbing our stairs, knife in hand. Imagine our horror when we saw the fiend standing on our stairway, holding a knife and donning an Egyptian mask of a jackal. Later Dr. Watson informed me that the jackal has a special place in Egyptian mythology, that of a god of death. It would seem the maniac took its image to strike fear into his enemies as well as mask his identity from the witnesses or he might have even believed amongst his delusions that he was god of death himself.

My pistol was ready and I fired a shot which grazed his leg. He quickly jumped through a stairway window and landed onto the street. The jump was quite high, yet it didn't stop him. He continued running with the same vigor I saw before. Watson and I ran outside to see him limping over a wall and vanishing. We both looked at each other, and as if we could understand what the other meant, we each ran our separate ways, encircling the fugitive. I took the right and Watson took the left, increasing our chances to catch the maniac. After a short run I found small traces of blood on the ground. Foolishly I concentrated on the stains, trying to determine the direction of movement the fugitive had when I was jumped by the same prey we were chasing. A cautionary tale if there ever was one, there is a time and place for everything, and a scene of chase is not a place for mental exercises. He hit me on the back of the shoulders and threw me on the ground. I could sense he was desperate underneath the mask. The maniac was preparing to take a stab at me but my friend fired several shots from his pistol that ended embedded in a wall. This startled the maniac and he climbed over the wall and escaped. Watson came to ask me if I was all right, and I convinced him that I was indeed well. I also thanked him for possibly saving my life, though I had a chance of fending the attacker myself since I am trained in some counters to knife attacks.

"He moves like a gazelle!", My friend exclaimed in a way I found especially humorous.

"Indeed he does, but what use is that to him? He attacked us at home, I will return the favor.", I replied finding a disapproving look on my friend's face.

"Surely the Scotland Yard will take care of him!", Watson exclaimed.

He may have been right, however my evidence was not nearly sufficient or acceptable at any court of law. The wound I inflicted upon his leg might be examined by a police officer, but it did not prove he is the serial maniac. The only witness to the fact was myself, and so without solid material evidence or other witnesses it would be me and my word only against his.

Finally, I decided to break into the maniac's home to find physical evidence. Then I would have reported what I found to the police, not mentioning my slight breaking of the law of course, and they would be able to verify the evidence for themselves.

NIGHT IN OPERA

I left my wife Mary with some mutual friends in Pembroke before returning to help Holmes. It wasn't easy convincing her of my motives, but eventually she conceded that it was the best course of action. Upon returning to Baker Street I found Holmes exhausted and full of new information, yet before he could have shared any of the news, we were interrupted by the most gruesome man. The serial maniac himself had come to finish his business with Holmes, while donning a terrifying mask and a knife. Instead of fear, we both jumped at the man and Holmes shot him in his leg. He jumped out of the stairway window like a beast, and with the same agility continued running across the streets of London. Holmes and I took chase, and my friend quickly caught up to the fiend. By the time I joined them, however, a terrible sight befell me. Sherlock was on the ground and the murderer was preparing to stab him with a large knife. I took aim and fired my pistol. Even though I was not precise, the noise of the gun was enough to startle the maniac and he climbed a wall behind him with quickness of a gazelle, leaving my friend on the ground. Thank the heavens that Holmes was not hurt but by the time I lifted him from the ground we were out of breath and gave up pursuit since in any eventuality Sherlock knew where the man actually lived. Sherlock swore that he will take vengeance for this intrusion and return the favor to the murderer by attacking him at his own home. I am recollecting all these dramatic events at a fast pace, the kind my readers are not normally used to, because Holmes convinced me he will add this event to his journal that I shall later combine with my chronicles. I hope he will add the necessary dramatic structure these happenings deserve.

In the several days that followed, we had sent Mrs. Hudson away to a safer location, to visit her relatives. Only Holmes and I remained, guarding our home vigilantly day and night and organizing our life in a paranoid like caution. When we were not at home, Holmes went in disguise to monitor the maniac's estate. Finally after another sleepless night, as I was barely noticing the breakfast we were eating, Holmes declared: "We are going to the opera tonight, Dear Watson."

"Isn't that a strange luxury at a time like this?", I asked.

"Not at all.", He replied. "It is a necessary luxury for us to keep appearances. After all, I will break into his house tonight as well."

"Holmes!", I exclaimed in surprise.

"I am unsure if you noticed, but as we are monitoring him, so is he monitoring us.", Holmes continued. "Several times I noticed a figure standing beneath our windows, watching. Good thing we kept our lights through the night and used this good old bait."

Holmes patted the life sized doll that was sitting comfortably in the armchair. He often used this bait to imitate his person to the unsuspected onlooker. As years went by, this doll could be said to have saved us on several occasions.

"All it is missing, is your pipe.", I commented on the doll in a slightly humorous manner.

"And my wits, I would hope!", Holmes accepted the joke. "In any case, I will have you know the maniac indeed wants us dead. He knows we are the only ones both aware of his misdeeds and willing to stop him."

"What about his fellow cult members?"  
"I don't think they will go out of their way to stop him.", Holmes answered. "Though I could be wrong."

Sherlock exhaled a large body of smoke as he was already holding his pipe firmly and waving it around.

"Good chance we will be followed tonight as well, either by the maniac or his butler.", Holmes continued. "But we shall go to the opera late in the evening, and after it is done, I shall swiftly change my ceremonious clothing for something more practical and in disguise head for the maniac's estate. There, I will break into his property and locate the evidence."

"Sounds extraordinarily dangerous.", I replied. "I will go with you to protect you in case of peril."

"Not this time.", Holmes replied. "When it comes to burglary, I am somewhat of an expert and it is much more efficient if it is done by one person."

"But what if the maniac jumps you there?!", I asked in shock. "You are going on his territory, there could be all kinds of traps waiting! And he has a large dog guarding the backyard if you still remember?"

"My dear Watson, if one is methodical, then he is safe even in the most unsafe of circumstances.", Holmes answered with glee. "I have a plan and a method of approach that minimizes the risks. If something unexpected happens or I notice something is amiss, I will retreat. That is why we were surveilling his house for these last three days, to observe and formulate a plan of entry."

There was no talking Holmes into changing his mind about the matter, and I felt extremely uneasy about the whole situation. Finally I told him I came back to help him and keep him safe from the maniac, and now at the most crucial moment he decided to abandon my help making my efforts all for naught. He conceded it was true but that he too was concerned for my wellbeing and that his approach "minimized the risks" as he would say it.

That night we were at the Opera, listening to the sounds of the Italian master. As the orchestra turned victorious melody into glorious fury, I watched at my friends face with great concern. His expression showed no worry or fear however, but instead he was immersed into thoughts I would not dare guess. "How unnatural", I thought to myself. Indeed, his calmness was unnatural to me and insane even. To think he could be as removed from the dangerous plan he formulated for this evening and enjoy the music of the moment. Or, could it be that the danger satisfied him as much as the music did? Was it all a game to Holmes?

After the opera was over, we were exiting the theater with the rest of the crowd when Holmes pulled me aside.

"Now begins the second part of my plan.", He said. "Head back home and put my doll into the armchair, you know the position you have to guard as well in case the maniac makes a move for our home."

"What about you?", I asked.

"I will mix with the crowd and vanish. Don't worry, I will report tomorrow morning what I found, Watson.", with these words Holmes turned around and mixed into a group of people.

When the group cleared I could not find my friend any more. He had changed his appearance in plain sight and I had lost the track of him.

The rest of evening was long and sleepless, I sat behind the curtain in our flat in the Baker Street while watching the Holmes' doll in the armchair. The plan was simple, if the maniac attacked the doll, then I would be able to ambush him from my hiding place. However, I had to keep myself from not falling asleep. I thought about the danger Sherlock put himself into, then about the danger I myself was in. These thoughts, along with a substantial amount of coffee, were enough to keep me awake.

As I was already nervous and afraid, the clunk of the door opening was enough to freeze the blood in my veins. I wanted to whisper "Holmes?", but I knew it wasn't him. It couldn't have been. A hand holding a gun emerged from behind the door and aimed at the armchair. A loud gun shot was heard and then again a loud shot. The man quietly moved inside our living room and approached the chair, he turned it only to find our bait: a gunned down doll of Sherlock Holmes.

"Drop your weapon!", I yelled while aiming my revolver at the intruder.

These events even though very stressful, had the opposite effect on my nerves. Perhaps because my time spent with the army taught me to handle risk, this dangerous situation cleared my mind and I knew what to do.

The masked man stood still, not saying a word back to me.

"Drop your gun!", I repeated. "Or I will shoot you!"

The would be murderer had a mask of Egyptian style, that of a jackal. He slowly turned around to face me, still holding a gun in his hand.

"Nice trap.", He said.

Quickly he drew the weapon at me and fired a shot. I fired as well. His went through the curtain, but mine through his chest. The man collapsed in one final death scream, holding his wound. I don't know how long it took before I approached the body. Possibly several seconds, but they seemed like eternity. Finally I approached very carefully and when I was convinced the man was dead, I removed his mask. The attacker was the butler of sir Ruppert Starthfield, the same one Sherlock and I met the day we first visited Ruppert's estate in London. Several thoughts occurred to me at that moment, was the butler actually the serial maniac? Or were Ruppert and his butler in cahoots? After a while I calmed down and went to the nearest police station to report what had just occurred. I was held by the inspectors for the rest of the night. The only information I gave them was this one, "The intruder was the butler of a man that Sherlock and I investigated, he had tried to murder us in our home because he felt Sherlock was on his master's trail and I shot him in self defense." I expected scrutiny, or even worse, police disbelieving my story and keeping me locked like a common murderer, but instead Sherlock's and even mine own reputation were enough for most of the inspectors to believe me outright. They did check our apartment and found most of the evidence confirmed my story.

After a sleepless night, I alone waited for Holmes in our apartment. It was morning already. The body of the man I killed was removed but the blood stains remained on the floor. I had word from the chief inspector that they will look into the matter more carefully but that I needn't worry. I was making another cup of coffee for myself when I heard the noise of footsteps.

"Watson…", Holmes said with a gravely voice while stuttering across the room.

I could see that he too, was exhausted. Not only that, something bad happened.

"Blood stains.", Holmes said while throwing himself into an armchair. "So the butler visited you tonight? And you shot him."

He jumped up and picked up a doll we used as bait from the ground.

"He shot our bait!", Holmes ecstatically exclaimed. "This doll was the best purchase of our life, Watson!"

"Yes, it may as well have saved my life but what about you?", I couldn't hide my impatience any more. "What happened at Rupert's estate?"

"Wait!", Holmes answered. "Let me first finish this and I will tell you everything in a moment. The attacker shot from the doorway and then he walked towards the doll to confirm his kill. That is when you shot him. You then went to the police station and returned to the place of the incident with more than one inspector."

Holmes was looking through an ash tray that contained several cigarettes the inspectors left behind.

"They believed your story.", Holmes continued. "And took the body of the butler to the morgue. Am I correct about all these things?"

"Yes.", I answered. "How did you know it was the butler?"

"A simple answer for that: the serial maniac told me.", Holmes replied. "He confessed that his butler helped him in some of his crimes and that he ordered the butler to follow us and make a move when the opportunity presented itself."

"Good God.", I said in disbelief.

"I can see you had an adventure yourself but I will tell you about mine.", Holmes started talking while lighting his pipe. "After the opera finished, I quickly removed my evening suit underneath of which I already wore raggedy clothing. I mixed in with the crowd, looking somewhat like an average drunkard of London, and walking with a different posture and rhythm to fool any would be followers. I picked up my bag that contained the tools I needed on the way, I had previously left it on a designated location some hours before. Walking through different alleys and streets, I took care to be sure I was not shadowed until I finally reached Ruppert's house. The lights in all the rooms were unlit, therefore either no one was home or everyone was sleeping. The only thing left to watch out for was the vicious dog tied near the toolshed. I tossed several pieces of meat laced with an anesthetic substance over the fence and waited patiently for the dog to eat those. After the dog ate the spiced meat, he fell into deep slumber that I was sure will last for a couple of hours due to previous testing done on dogs of similar size. I jumped over the wall and the fence of the Ruppert's estate and headed for the toolshed to see what I can find there. It seemed like a probable location of an incriminatory evidence to me, for one the dog was tied near it and it was probable that he guarded something valuable. Secondly, the murdering tools could be stored there. And thirdly, it seemed like an easiest way to start from a burglar's point of view. The only lock on the door was primitive and I quickly dismantled it using more force than skill. I slowly entered the toolshed and found it contained steps to the cellar within. I took the steps below and entered a subterranean floor. The sights, Watson! The cellar contained torture devices, not used recently mind you. Lots of them were rusty and out of use but were kept there since our serial maniac held a morbid fascination with them it seems. I found a collection of knives on the walls and on the table, and the worst part was I saw bloodstains on the table. The knives were clean but the hard wood soaked the blood from them when they were not. There were some Egyptian artefacts, a table with ritual writings like the one we saw at Leccruix's. And the final shock, I found a jar containing a heart. Most likely human."

"The horror!", I exclaimed.

"Imagine how I felt! My dear Watson, at that moment I found more than I hoped for. And now I had all the cards. The evidence by itself was not much, but I could bribe a person or a boy of my own to claim they saw Rupert entering his home with a bloody knife at night and I could falsely testify something to the extent. The police would then search his cellar and find these horrific things. It would be enough to bring him to court with a reasonable suspicion. These were the things I calculated with when I heard the door open behind me. I was in shock momentarily but then I quickly hid behind a large closet. Loud steps could be heard coming down the stairs and entering the room. I saw a blood stained large knife in his hands, Watson, as he laid it on a table and took out an empty jar. Then he put something that looked like an organ inside the jar and sealed it. I think I breathed too heavily at this point and he may have heard me. He stopped moving for a moment, listening carefully. That is when I had enough. "Good evening.", I presented my self to him. He turned around frightened and he grabbed the knife into his hand. "Had a productive night?", I taunted him while aiming my revolver at the maniac. "Doing the devil's work?", I asked. "But tell me, do you think a devil has his own devil?", I asked him this philosophical question. "You are no devil, Mr. Holmes.", the maniac replied calmly. "There is no devil, only the strong… and the weak.", he said pointing his knife at me. "You already tried to hurt me at my home once, without success.", I replied. "I am here to return the favor." "That was my loyal servant.", The maniac said. "I told him to keep an eye on you." "I was going to let the police handle you.", I said. "But now that is not going to be the case." "Are you going to kill me, Mr. Holmes?", he asked without fear. His eyes were glaring in the dark, Watson. "Naturally.", I replied. "Rabid dogs have to be put down. But first,, tell me why? Why do you kill? What is the point of these rituals?" I was curious to find out. "To a non believer like yourself, no answer would be good enough.", He replied. Then he charged me as quickly as lightning, Watson. I fired a shot but he cut me on my hand and I only grazed the left side of his torso with a bullet. As he viciously swung his knife at my face, I dropped the pistol and grabbed his knife wielding hand with both my own hands, to stop the knife from piercing my skull. He used this opportunity to hit me with a knee inbetween my ribs but I held. I pushed him back and punched his torso like a boxer with both my left and right. I was trying to feel the wound I left with the gun, to better estimate the situation. Unfortunately, I could see that his bleeding was not sufficient and that this fight will come down to who overpowers whom first."

"Enough!", I yelled. "Holmes, let me take a look at the wounds you sustained! I had no idea it went this badly."

My friend was unhappy that I interrupted him, but he quickly accepted my offer. I took off his shirt and found nasty cuts on both his left and right arm, Sherlock had tied pieces of fabric over his wounds unprofessionally. The worst was the cut underneath his ribs, as well as the bruises.

"You are lucky to be alive, he could have stabbed you there and then you would have been dead.", I said.

"But you will find the opposite happened.", Holmes replied and continued with his story. "We fought desperately, as two men holding for their lives would. He slashed viciously at me and I was backing down. Finally I grabbed a knife from his table and waited for my opportunity to stab him. But now he was more careful and didn't want to rush at me. "Did the whores present less of a challenge?", I taunted the man. "It is not about the challenge. It is about what needs to be done.", the maniac changed to tone of his voice and then charged at me with disregard for his own safety. This is when I was most concerned. It felt he did not care about himself anymore, and therefore I could not predict his next move. All I knew was, he was trying to take me with him. He slashed me under the ribs but I stabbed him through the heart and locked his knife wielding arm using baritsu. I don't know how I did it, Watson. Honestly, my mind went blank for those seconds and I feel lucky he charged in a straight line."

"What happened next?", I asked.

"I looked him in his eyes as he died. It felt like justice, and now it occurred to me. Maybe he thought he was doing justice too? All I know is it felt good to see him die, Watson. Then I left the place, shaken and could barely walk but I did. I tied my wounds the best I could once I was on my way home."

"Shocking story.", I said but the word "shocking" was too underwhelming to describe this whole adventure. "What are we going to do now? We killed the two men responsible for the serial killings."

"Actually, only Rupert was responsible for the serial killings. His butler was helping him to cover them up. But as for your question, I predict a lot of explaining to the police and such. We will have to synchronize our stories and the details. And make plans on how to approach the detectives. I suggest leaving me out of Rupert's murder. I was breaking into his home and therefore, from a legal point of view, he had right to attack me in self defense. And then a good prosecutor could make it so that I hang. So I was never near his estate last night."

"Understood". I confirmed.

Holmes and I discussed the details of how he was never involved in the murder of Rupert Strathfield until we found the news of Rupert's death in the newspapers. The news said Rupert was killed by a burglar who had stolen a large quantity of valuables from the estate. Nothing was mentioned of the cellar that contained large body of incriminating evidence. It was as if someone covered the whole thing up and Holmes suspected as much. Was it a favor from our friends at the police or a secret cult's doing, we never found out. One thing was for certain, from that day the serial murders stopped.


End file.
